


Heartbreaker, Breathtaker

by Arnheim



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnheim/pseuds/Arnheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is a stained hell of blood and alcohol for Rose Lalonde, with a dead father, a mother addicted to liquor, violent and manipulative, and seemingly no love beyond that which her books offer.</p>
<p>It could have been worse, she tells herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreaker, Breathtaker

It all happens very suddenly to your juvenile mind: your mother gets angry, yells at your father, he goes out and never comes back—a few days later, you learn that he has been found on the side of the road, face down into a pool of his own blood, and the autopsy reveals, to nobody's surprise, that he had drank a very large amount of alcohol. You see, for the first time, your mother fall apart.

But Roxanne is a strong woman, or so you thought, and she rebuilds herself, she changes. She stops working as diligently on her projects, runs past deadlines, and she doesn't smile the same way as she did before; it's not a happy, genuine smile, it's a weak attempt at comforting you when she has the chance to cross your path the few moments you are out of your room. She doesn't wish you good night when you go to bed, too occupied staggering around the house in a drunken stupor until she finally collapses onto the couch hours later.

And you, poor little Rose, you isolate yourself, both physically and emotionally; you build a wall around your mind that nobody can climb, and you only leave your room at necessary times, when you are certain your mother cannot see you. Of course, you never skip any classes; there's only so much you can avoid before you get hit across the face and yelled at. Instead, you make a greater effort to please everyone, although you rapidly discover your attempts are in vain; nobody cares whether or not you succeed in school. You take an interest in psychology to reason out your mother's behaviour, and you start reading surreal and disturbing stories to contend with the harsh reality of your discoveries, spending hours upon hours of your free time ensconced in the safety of your bed, with books your sole companions. The wounds accumulate. You barely sleep anymore, hiding the marks with makeup you steal from Roxanne—you have stopped calling her mother unless you are in her presence—and ignoring the subsequent comments you get at school. They call you witch, throw rocks at you when they think the teachers can't see them and leave you to cry in a corner, wishing somebody would care, but nobody does, not even _her_.

She greets you with a groan when you come back home that day, following you lazily as you push empty bottles to open a path to the kitchen, which is, unsurprisingly, a mess of more bottles and viscous traces of dried alcohol. She takes her usual place, face down against the worktop, whilst you clean and sort out the meagre amount of ingredients available for supper, vaguely pointing in directions when you ask her where she placed the various tools needed—you are of the opinion that she shouldn't touch any of those, but you aren't particularly willing to say so when your only reward is going to be injuries.

“Hey, Rosie,” Her voice is ragged and uneven, but her tone conveys a variety of emotions that make you shudder and close in on yourself; a mix of anger and disappointment that usually ends with you cleaning up the blood pooling in your mouth, whether you listen to her or not.

“What is it, mother?”

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” she drawls, catching your arm with a speed you weren't expecting from her, especially in this state, and you can't help taking a step back in surprise, your movement ending rapidly as you hit the door of the refrigerator. Her heels clatter on the floor as she steps toward you, and you try to hide your fright as best as you can from this proximity, which is nigh an impossible task when her face is inches away from yours and your brain is telling you to run away as fast as possible—you ultimately decide the best option is to tell her the truth, instead of being called a liar, which is much more hurtful in your opinion.

“Because I already have enough wounds to treat,” you respond as calmly as possible, and it doesn't take long before you feel the familiar sting of pain on your cheek, your vision going blurry from the shock against the freezer's door.

“And you deserve them,” she spits angrily, releasing her grip to let you fall to the floor. “You're just like your father. Worthless, and a little bitch on top of that. But I love you so much, it makes me sick. You don't know how many times I've wanted to kiss you, how many times I've wanted to share your bed, make you feel something for me. But that's not something I can do, because I'm your mother and it's not right for me to feel like that. So I'll settle for pain instead of love. That's the closest I can get.”

She lets out a deep sigh as the last words evaporate into silence, and it strikes you that your mouth has been agape for the past two minutes, your eyes fixated on the lofty silhouette that is Roxanne, which she apparently notices, bothered enough to kneel down in front of you instead of returning to her previous location as you had anticipated.

You only have time to feel her fingers on your cheek before you hear a loud knock and find yourself bending over, red dripping down your chin to stain the bright fabric of your skirt—opening your mouth only gives way to more blood, much more than you had expected, and there is soon a large spot of crimson on the front of your outfit, drops sent haphazardly over the tiles of the floor. Light chuckles reach your ears in dismal rhythms, the noise however interfered by the awful ringing in the back of your head.

“You're making such a mess, Rosie.” It makes you grit your teeth how happy she sounds. “Go to your room before you completely ruin my kitchen, darling.” You don't even have the strength to answer, so you simply stand up hesitatingly, leaning against the refrigerator to support your weight, which you quickly find is necessary, as your upper muscles are seemingly unable to do so after the hit you have taken—a fact that is far from surprising—and crawling your way to your bedroom doesn't seem like an attractive option. Navigating along the walls is certainly not much faster, but it's more convenient.

Changing out of your clothes proves to be a tedious operation, but you eventually succeed in discarding the bloody garments, finding refuge and warmth under the thick counterpane, for a short moment before your phone alerts you to the large amount of messages that have been left in the past hour; messages boasting a bright shade of red and the most horrific syntax you have ever seen. You decide to humour him, despite your exhaustion.

TT: Hello, Strider.

TG: yo lalonde

TG: were you asleep or something

TT: I was having a conversation with my mother.

TT: Well, it would be more appropriate to call it a monologue, I had but very few occasions to speak.

TG: you okay

TG: i mean your mom is kind of bad news so

TT: It could have been worse.

TG: rose stop avoiding the question

TT: What are you, my brother?

TG: hell no

TG: im just worried

TG: i mean im your cousin and i still care about you

TG: and last time i saw you you had more wounds than me

TG: im the one who gets smacked by a puppet every damn day

TG: and no offence but your mom is really fucking insane if she beats you up that bad

TT: She's not insane, simply...misunderstood.

TG: yeah right

TG: how can you still defend her

TT: Perhaps the stunning revelation that she genuinely loves me had an impact on how I feel toward her.

TG: well shes your mom

TG: why is that surprising

TT: Not motherly love, Strider.

TG: what

TG: oh shit

TG: seriously

TT: Do you know me to be a liar?

TG: man i cant even tell sometimes

TT: Well, I can certify that I am not, in this case, being deceitful.

TG: so what did you do about it

TT: I didn't have time to do anything. 

TT: Seconds later, I was spitting blood on the kitchen floor.

TG: jesus fuck rose

TG: you need to get help

TG: like call the police or something

TT: She's my mother, Dave! 

TT: What would I do without her?

TT: I don't have anyone else but her.

TG: you have me

TG: but i guess i dont matter that much to you

You are grateful your phone resist fairly well to impact damage; or, rather, you would be grateful if you didn't feel like breaking it and never hearing from this blonde asshole again. He had always been rather harsh, but guilting you was a new low—and it worked infuriatingly well.

Blood stains the surface of your pillow, but you don't have the will to move anymore. You feel empty, enraged, guilty, terrified, and, most of all, worthless. You cannot even bring yourself to blame Roxanne for this torture: she had but little involvement in this matter: you are the one who created this reality, after all, and all that you are capable of doing is lament the result of your own actions like a pathetic idiot. You could have accepted Dave's implied proposition; he didn't live that far from you, and his brother and him were the last remnants of your family.

Instead, you chose to ignore the only person who had taken the chance to help you in favour of your mother, the violent and manipulative, simply because you couldn't deal with the idea of losing her. There was, in spite of all those years, a small part of you that still loved her and wanted her attention, to the point where you were ready to accept this twisted kind of love she had decided to provide you with.

Tears flow down your cheeks, tears of exhaustion and anger that you are too tired to stop or care about, and you can feel yourself breaking down, the walls you built falling apart around the poor little girl that you still are, the one who has been abandoned by her mother, the one who is far from being strong in any ways.

So you are forced to change. You lose your interest in psychology, because you aren't able to reason out your mother's behaviour, and you cry each day for all that you've lost, spending hours upon hours of your free time ensconced in the safety of your bed, with blood and tears your sole companions.

It's scary how fast pain can destroy someone.


End file.
